Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Thank you for joining Ejaculate™,
the Wine Club here at Splooge Estate and Winery. You’ll be receiving your first
load in the next few weeks, but I wanted to thank you for joining, and outline
the many benefits of your Ejaculate™
membership. As you know, Splooge Estate is an organic estate and all of our
wines are natural wines. We take every precaution to insure that every Splooge
is as natural and as satisfying as it can be. It just tastes better that way.

We’re happy that you’ve joined Ejaculate™ at the highest level, the Mother Load. Four times a year
you’ll be receiving a Mother Load of our natural wines. We know you’ll enjoy
tasting each and every Ejaculate™
selection, but, rest assured, should you feel that a Splooge is not to your
taste, just spit it out and we will happily replace it. That’s our Splooge
guarantee.

Your June Mother Load will consist of the three latest
Splooge releases:

2011 Splooge “Spray of Pink” Rosé of Pinot Noir

Our natural pink wine is produced from our estate Pinot Noir
grapes that are harvested by hand, not using any sharp tools that might harm
the stems. Harvesting with grape knives is cruel and painful for grapes.
Splooge grapes are harvested by gently twisting each cluster until it gently
falls into the fur-lined harvesting basket. Our Rosé is carefully bled from our
finest lots of Pinot Noir and then fermented at very cold temperatures using
local nuns who sit on the barrels. Serve it chilled with our local bivalves. A
recipe for “Splooge’s Famous Cloister Oysters” is included with your Mother
Load shipment. For all we care, you can go shuck yourself.

2010 Splooge Estate Pinot Noir “Dos Huevos Vineyard”

We know that you expect your Splooge to be handled with the
greatest care. We never use pesticides, herbicides, or fungicides in our
vineyards. In fact, we basically ignore our vineyards altogether in order to
make the most natural wine possible. We do occasionally walk through the
vineyard waving pruning shears, but that’s just to let the vines know we mean
business. Our vines are intimidated naturally, not by modern methods that harm
them psychologically, like pruning and leaf-pulling or suckering. Ever been
suckered? Yes, you have. You joined a wine club.

2010 Splooge Rouge

Splooge grows five different red grape varieties. Well, last
time we checked it was five. We don’t really look that often, that’s unnatural.
Each of the five (?) varieties is harvested individually. Most are gently
twisted from the vines, but we let the Zinfandel fall to the ground when it’s
ready. We’ve found that the Zinfandel vines are most comfortable when they
decide when their fruit is ready. The grapes are gently picked up, placed in
canvas bags from Whole Foods (this makes the grapes feel self-important), and
then placed in our specially designed bamboo fermenting bins. Our Splooge Rouge
is for when you just feel like Splooging after a long day at work.

Your Ejaculate™
membership has many benefits:

Free Tour of the Splooge Estate (normally $30/person)

One of Splooge Estate Tasting Room Jerkoffs™ will take you
and up to five guests on a walking tour of Splooge Estate, explaining the
natural way we grow and produce wine. Because we are natural wine producers, this
is a clothing optional tour, so wear plenty of sunscreen and put a muzzle on
your friendly dog. Along the way you’ll visit our world-famous compost heap,
where we not only make our own compost, but we use the internal heat generated
to bake our famous Splooge bread! Depending upon what’s available in the
garden, your friendly Jerkoff™ may instruct you in how to eat an all-natural
shit sandwich! At Splooge Estate, as part of our commitment to nature, we also
cultivate rattlesnakes. Rattlesnakes help control the rodent population, as
well as helping to supply the compost heap with local winery dogs. Except in
the winter months, you’re likely to see many of our Splooge Snakes. Just don’t
get bit on yours!

Discounts at our many Splooge Events

Our Splooge Estate Events are all about having fun
naturally. We put on many events over the course of a vintage, and as a Mother
Load Splooger, you are given a sizeable discount. We know that our Sploogers
enjoy many strokes, and we deliver! Events change in any given year, but there
are certain events, the ones that are the most popular with our Ejaculate™ Members, that are held
annually. Don’t miss the Splooge Native Yeast Festival in August! The featured
entertainer is Miss Sugar, a local ecdysiast, and guests are encouraged to
dress as their favorite yeast and try to convert Miss Sugar to alcohol. Miss Sugar
loves the native yeasts and converts easily. Those who are cultured she can
barely stand. Needless to say, there’s plenty of Splooge on hand for everyone
to enjoy. You’ll also want to save the date in May for our “Unnatural Wines
Suck” Celebration. Compare our latest Splooge Estate releases to wines that are
not naturally made and discover the difference for yourself. Our neighbors’
wines might taste better, they might have less bottle variation, but our
natural wines are wines as God intended them to be—punishment for your sins.

And, finally, our natural wines’ finest benefit

The smugness of knowing you’re full of Splooge

Natural wines are simply better. Natural wonders are
better than other wonders, right? Natural foods are better than other foods—only
the disenfranchised and poor eat foods that aren’t natural—coincidence? I don’t
think so. The only wines that have any meaning are natural wines. Just ask the
people who make them. Wine is not made to be enjoyed. Every wine you consume is
a political statement, no more, no less. And your membership in Ejaculate™ proves that above all you
value everything else over taste.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

It’s that time of year again. Nominations are open for the
Wine Blog Awards, or, as I call them, the POODLES. If you lean in and listen closely, shhhhh,
there’s one now, you can hear the bloggers surreptitiously nominating
themselves. The categories include Best Overall Wine Blog, Best Writing on a
Wine Blog, Best New Wine Blog, Best Industry Blog—or, as they’re collectively
known in Track and Field, the Low Hurdles.

No one knows how many wine blogs there are. But all you have
to do is see one, and you just know there will be thousands more. Like
cockroaches. Or butt pimples. The wine blogosphere is a lot like a karaoke
contest. Most of the people doing it don’t really have much of a voice. And
they all tend to pretty much sing the same damned songs over and over.

Unlike most awards, the POODLES judges remain anonymous. Oh, but you
know they’re qualified. How do you know? Each judge received at least 96 points
from the organizers. There, that’s proof positive. Why are the judges’ names
kept secret? Simple. Much easier to nominate their friends that way. Or win
awards themselves. Wait, that seems way too cynical. No, the judges are
anonymous in order to protect those judges from lobbying or pressure from
nominees. And that’s understandable. We all know Poodles are so damned articulate and
persuasive—look at how much wine they sell. And, besides, judges are usually
kept anonymous in every great democracy. Say, North Korea. One can really only
trust the decisions of anonymous judges. Ask Justice Clarence Thomas.

There is about it all the feeling of the elementary school
playground. “Pick Me, Pick Me!,” mixed with the sincerity of Sally Fields, “You
like me, you really like me.” A lot of bloggers, in a wondrous blaze of
shamelessness, will ask their readers to nominate them. I wonder if this
happens for the Nobels. “Yes, it’s time once again for the Nobel Prize in
Literature. I’ve worked hard all year, written a brilliant, self-published
novel, and, well, Phillip Roth is never going to win, so why not nominate me?”
Now in its sixth year, the Wine Blog Awards have become something I only barely
recognize—a joke. Or maybe a Wark in Progress. It boils down to awards for typing. And typing often.

I was going to start my own POODLE awards. I know that an
award from the HoseMaster would be far more meaningful than one from some
imaginary and self-appointed Wine Blog Awards website. (Hey, this post is about vanity, I’m
entitled to my Cher.) I was going to start my
own wine blog awards because the current categories for a POODLE are useless,
and don’t reflect the reality of the wine blogosphere.

May I suggest a few categories that might be far more
appropriate? Oh, you know I will. And I’m actively seeking nominations.

BEST NATURAL WINE
BLOG

No, this isn’t for a blog about natural wines. The winner of
this category is a blog that doesn’t add anything at all to the wine world. It
is a blog as nature intended. Natural blogs do not contain anything from
outside the blog that artificially enhance it, such as pirated photos, lame ads
for the California Wine Club, or anything cultured, like yeast or literary references.
A blog is either an unnatural wine blog or a natural wine blog, but natural
blogs are clearly superior. There are countless natural wine blogs that add
nothing to the conversation, and this is an award to recognize their
facileness. (Many have their own FacileBook page.)

BEST BLOG I’D PAY TO
READ

There was a time when one of the most common topics on wine
blogs was how to “monetize” your blog. That topic has vanished. Primarily
because wine blogs are like the junk people take to “Antiques Roadshow” and the
expert says, “What you have here is an item that should be strapped to a
suicide bomber.” So, this award asks, is there a wine blog you would actually
pay to read? I think we all know the answer.

As an aside, I personally love the blogs, like W. Blinky
Gray’s, that ask for a donation through Paypal. There’s a guy outside my local
Safeway with a sign written on cardboard that says, “Any Spare Change
Apreciated.” I give him money because I think he’s more interesting to read.

FEWEST COMMENTS ON A
WINE BLOG

It seems all wine bloggers try desperately to have zero
comments on their posts, at least judging by how interesting those posts are.
This award celebrates the wine blog that manages month after month to have the
fewest comments, with none being the perfect score. This promises to be a hotly
contested category.

BEST TROLLING WINE
BLOGGER

We all know this clown, the one who haunts the “successful”
blogs posting comments relentlessly in order to troll for hits on his/her own
useless, ego-driven blog. I think it’s
time we honor those tireless and shameless advocates for themselves. Devoid of
original thoughts themselves, they want to sidle up next to those who have
something to say and nod their virtual heads in agreement while pretending
they’re part of the same intellectual team.

Ultimately, it is they who epitomize the finest in Poodledom.

And for my previously published explanation of most of the categories for a Wine Blog Award, follow this LINK.

Monday, May 21, 2012

When it comes right
down to it, the wine business is habitually slow to capitalize on new societal
trends. This is because alcohol dulls the brain, though it does make you
wittier and more attractive to immovable objects at high speeds. Wineries have
been notably inept at utilizing FaceBook and Twitter, and most winery blogs
read like they were written by a committee of lawn furniture. They’re about as
engaging as C-SPAN, but without the guffaws. But the Social Media revolution
has passed. Everyone is on FaceBook. It’s the modern day White Pages—genuinely
influential people are unlisted. Twitter is the finally realized statistical
dream of an infinite number of chimpanzees typing on an infinite number of
keyboards while waiting for “Hamlet” to suddenly appear.

What’s happening now
is AntiSocial Media, and wineries and marketing people would be wise to jump on
the AntiSocial Media wave before it too becomes overpopulated with the
endlessly self-absorbed Millienials. Pay attention, now, here is the HoseMaster’s
Guide to AntiSocial Media.

FakeBook

It’s a world filled with phonies, and now there’s a place
online where they can congregate, network, and continually lie to each other—FakeBook. FakeBook celebrates everything shallow and disingenuous about our culture—so
what better place to sell wine?! Users can create their own FakeBook page and fill it with their
imaginary credentials, meaningless accomplishments, and spontaneous,
ill-informed opinions. (So it’s like FaceBook, only honest.) Then you can link
to whomever you hold in contempt. It’s a great way to spot a fake. Imagine how
many “Deriders” a guy like James Suckling would attract! And what an honor it
would be if he “Derided” you back. Last I checked, Jay McInerney had 3500
Deriders—pretty good, unless you consider that he has enormous contempt for
more than two million readers of the Wall Street Journal.

I would encourage wineries to begin a FakeBook page as soon as possible. FakeBook is a place where you can proudly display all the Gold
Medals you’ve won from prestigious wine competitions like the “International
Nose Jobs Gone Wrong Invitational,” the “Special Olympics for Wine,” and the “Enter
and Win A Gold Classic.” Wineries can also use their FakeBook page to pretend their wines are allocated, a time-honored
winery tradition that translates perfectly onto FakeBook’s platform. In fact, all of the traditional wine marketing
ploys are exactly right for FakeBook—no
need to alter those shallow and disingenuous techniques for this platform! Now
imagine that James Laube gives your $150 Cabernet made from “ambient yeast,”
whatever the fuck that means, 84 points. You can immediately hold him in
Contempt on your FakeBook page and
be pretty certain he’ll Deride you back. On FaceBook you would never point out
that Laube had a rare case of tongue stroke, which paralyzed the left fork, but
on FakeBook it’s considered
mandatory to do so. That’s the beauty of FakeBook.

Squealer

Squealer is what
Twitter aspires to be. Members generate as many “Oinks” as they like every day,
but the Oinks are not allowed to have any words that are more than two
syllables. This is AntiSocial Media, so the object is to play to the lowest
common denominator and then make fun of them. The most successful Squealers will be a combination of
plagiarist and illiterate, two words not allowed in Oinks, but skills that are
useful in Social Media as well.

How is Squealer
useful to wineries? Where else can you gather so many stupid people to follow
your thoughts, make them believe they’re important, and, ultimately, buy your
wine as thanks, while openly berating them? As well as keep them informed about
new releases and upcoming events. Here’s a few sample Oinks to keep in mind:

Twitter is so yesterday. The Millenials don’t Tweet any
more, they Text. Twitter is for the lonely, delusional and thunderstruck.
Twitter is only for seeing who died in the last ten minutes. It serves no other
purpose. The hip are all Oinking.

Yelp

When it comes to AntiSocial Media, there is no improving on Yelp.
It’s where angry ex-employees go to seek revenge, where the opinions of
self-important dimwits can cost people jobs, and where the great unwashed
masses go to unreservedly complain about hard-working people instead of
improving their own lives. Yelp
prefigured AntiSocial Media. It created the idea that fear is the best way to
create better customer service and that kindness is always second best to
generosity. God Bless Yelp.

Wineries should proudly display their negative Yelp reviews on their FakeBook pages and proudly Oink, “Ted from Bumfuck Yelped that our wines
blow. We wish him luck with his Erect Tile Dish Function.”

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Master of Wine. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? But what
does that make us? They’re Masters, we must be servants. That’s certainly how
they look at it. But what is it they’ve really mastered? Memorization and taking
tests, primarily. Or maybe it’s more like the Masters Golf Tournament. Only
there are a lot more holes when it comes to M.W.’s, and they think the more
strokes the better. There is always a parade of sycophants lined up to sit for
the M.W. exams. Yeah, “sit.” They also learn “beg,” “roll over,” and “when
you’re done licking yours, lick mine.” I was glad Larry Anosmia was dead. But
now that I’d accepted the case, his murder was getting under my skin, like a
James Suckling video, or a tick. I’m creeped out by that kind of insect. I
don’t like ticks much either.

I needed to learn more about Anosmia’s murder. Why did the
cops think it was a suicide? Yes, they’re small town cops, and not really familiar
with murder. The usual crimes in Healdsburg are drunk driving, jaywalking and being
Mexican. The cops don’t see a lot of dead bodies unless they visit the
Ferrari-Carano tasting room and talk to the hospitality crew. And a murder
means an investigation, means gathering evidence, means chasing someone capable
of slashing a guy’s throat with a piece of glass. They’d just as soon a dick
like me does that. The more I thought about it, the more this case made me
nervous. It was already starting to smell worse than a four dollar Argentinian
Malbec, the ones that retail for forty. And I’d only just started.

Avril Cadavril

I decided I needed to talk to Avril Cadavril about Anosmia’s
death. Avril and I had been doing the bodily fluid fandango for several months
now, ever since she had dropped more blubber than Captain Ahab. She was a whole
new woman, not afraid to show off and share that magnificent new poopdeck of
hers. And I had just the seamen to do it. Avril only worked part-time as the
city coroner. The rest of the time she worked as a butcher. The girl could
handle meat.

Was I in love with Avril? Love doesn’t exist in the world I
live in; neither does justice or honor or truth. I live in the dark underbelly
of existence. I deal with betrayal, dishonesty, violence, hatred, and BevMo’s 5
Cent Sale. At
the end of my day, I can’t wash the smell of evil off my skin, not even with
Drew Barrymore Pinot Grigio and water. Which adds up to hot water. And now I
was wading into the M.W. cesspool. Maybe Anosmia wasn’t the suicide, maybe I
was. There are quick suicides, like a gunshot through the roof of your mouth,
or jumping off the top of Thomas Keller’s ego-inflated toque; and then
there are the long, slow, but every bit as deliberate suicides—smoking
cigarettes, binge-drinking, and, maybe for me, listening to M.W.’s.

Avril wasn’t at Big John’s, where she usually worked as a
butcher. She was quite the draw now that she’d become a babe. Guys were lined
up at her meat counter. I guess you could say the same about Crystal. Rather than drive over to the
coroner’s office to see if she was there, I dialed Avril’s cellphone. My call
went directly to voicemail. “Hello, this is Avril. If you have a dead body and
want to know where the night deposit box is, press 1. For roasts, prime ribs,
rack of lamb, and all your butchering needs, press 2. If you want to pork
loins, please leave a message at the beep.” I don’t leave messages, so I hung
up and headed over to Avril’s office.

When I got to her office, the door was open. That made me suspicious.
Avril always kept the door locked, even when she was there. Quietly, I pushed
the door open. I didn’t want to scare her, but I also didn’t want whomever was
in the office, in case it was someone other than Avril, to hear me. It was one
of those moments when I wished I carried a piece. Not a gun, a hair piece. But
I’d forgotten it. I was beginning to think there would be hell toupee later.

I had one foot in the door when I heard heavy breathing. It
wasn’t Avril. I knew what her heavy breathing sounded like, we’d done the
tongue triathlon tango enough times that I’d know her panting anywhere. This
was much heavier breathing. It sounded more like Robert Parker walking all over
Jay Miller. And then I knew who it was.

Tiny. The local gossip columnist for the Healdsburg
Herald-Flatulence. Nothing happens in Healdsburg that Tiny doesn’t know about.
The first half of that sentence could stand alone. As did Tiny. All 400 pounds
of him.

“Hey, Tiny,” I said, “what are you looking for? Avril’s diet
books?”

Tiny didn’t even seem surprised to see me. “HoseMaster, man,
haven’t you heard?”

Sunday, May 13, 2012

My Mother died in December of 2007. A week
after she died I sat down and wrote this brief and inadequate tribute to her.

A sincere Happy Mother's Day to all to whom it applies. I still miss her.

Early in the morning of her second day in the Intensive
Care Unit at Long
Beach Memorial
Hospital
my Mother, Beverly Richards, was startled awake by loud beeps and bells. Her
blood pressure had dropped precipitously and her hospital monitoring equipment
was alerting everyone. Four nurses, who had been instructed in no uncertain
terms that no heroic measures were to be taken to sustain her life, lined the
wall she faced. Once Mom understood what was happening (she told me that for a
moment she believed that death had finally arrived) she gathered her wits and
said, "'...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in
mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for
thee.'" Always the perfect line. But, much to her chagrin, she was not
Donne yet.

I awakened this morning at 6:45 AM, the exact time Mom
passed a week ago, and felt urgently compelled to write a bit about her. I
write only about the woman I knew, not the one you knew or my sister knew or my
brother knew or my father knew. Those are different women. I can only speak of
the woman I knew as my Mother.

She forever made me laugh. Not with jokes or wit, but with
character, the essence of all great comedy. One afternoon when I was at my desk
at my apartment in South
Pasadena the phone rang. I
answered and heard my Mother say, "Hello, this is Beverly Richards, I'm
calling to see if my prescription is ready yet." Altering my voice a bit I
replied, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Richards, I don't have any record of any prescriptions
to be refilled for you." Nothing drove my Mom crazier than incompetence.
She said in a stern, teacherly voice, "I phoned yesterday afternoon and
spoke to someone, it may have been you, and they assured me that my drugs would
be ready today." "I'm sorry, I just don't have any record of that
order. Are you certain you're calling the right pharmacy? Maybe you're
confused." Oh, man, that really got her. "You must be confused,"
she said, "for you've confused me with someone who doesn't know what they're
doing." "No need to get snippy, Mrs. Richards, I'm trying to
help." "I'd like to speak with a manager," Mom said. "I am
the manager, Ma'am, and I'm glad that you're speaking to me because I'd hate
for one of my employees to have to deal with you." Now she kicked into her
fed-up mode. "I'd like your name so that I can write a letter to your
employer," my Mother demanded. "Yes, Ma'am, my name is Ronald
Washam." There was a long pause. Over the phone line I could hear the
gears in her head buzzing. Then the light came on. She laughed. She had hit the
wrong number on her automatic dialer and called me instead of the pharmacy. She
was a bit peeved that I'd messed with her like that, though she admitted it was
funny. Then she asked me, "But are my prescriptions ready?"

It wasn't until I was in my 30's that I realized that my
Mom was one of the smartest people I have had the privilege to know. She had
always turned to literature and poetry for wisdom and guidance, and she was
indeed incomparably wise and contemplative. When she went into the hospital for
the last time on Thanksgiving, she made sure to take her homemade book of
poetry. The book is her personal collection of poems, from Frost and
Shakespeare and Wallace Stevens and Edna St. Vincent Millay and Whitman and
innumerable others. The poems are torn from books and newspapers, they are
taped and pasted into the book, a Kahlil Gibran Diary for 1976, with her
favorite passages underlined with her ubiquitous red pen. Like this excerpt
from Stanley Kunitz' poem, "Touch
Me."

I kneeled to the crickets trilling

underfoot as if about

to burst from their crusty shells;

and like a child again

marveled to hear so clear

and brave a music pour

from such a small machine.

What makes the engine go?

Desire, desire, desire.

She had me read "Touch Me" to her in her hospital
bed and spoke to me about that final line. As if to say to me that her desire
to live had abandoned her; that desire which had driven her all of her life, as
it drives us all, had fled; but that burning desire, desire, desire had driven
her to do all the wonderful things and all the foolish things she had done in
her long life; only now, at 83, desire had dried up and blown away, like the
abandoned exoskeleton of a dead cricket. If you think I read too much into the words
of a dying woman, you vastly underestimate that woman.

As a child, indeed all of my life, my Mother allowed me to
be myself. That cannot have been easy. I was shy, withdrawn, moody, stubborn
and the pickiest eater on the planet. She indulged all of that, and more (as my
family will gleefully attest). I often sat in a different room at dinner. My
grandmother would make a different meal for me if the family's meal were
loathsome fish or disgusting chipped beef or some other food item I wouldn't dream
of eating. Subtly, graciously, lovingly, my Mother's acceptance of me gave me
self-esteem and power. Are there greater gifts a son can receive?

Don't worry, I won't go on much longer. My Mother's courage
and grace the last few days of her life were awe-inspiring. At the end of each
of those last few precious days, after visiting with her family and best
friends and her saints-for-neighbors she would say, "I had a lovely day
today." She's laying (lying?--where are you, Mom, when I need you?) in a
bed in her living room, unable to walk, internally bleeding to death,
contemplating her mortality, and, for her, it could not have been a better day.
She'd ask me to read poetry to her. Another of her favorite poems (you should look
these up, friends) "Sunday Morning" by the great Wallace Stevens.
Here's one of her red underlined excerpts from that poem:

Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,

Within whose burning bosom we devise

Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

"we" is double-underlined, it represents a shift
in the poem much too subtle for me to have noticed, but language was Mom's
stock in trade and little escaped her insight, or her red pen. But, really,
"Death is the mother of beauty" is a strange and wonderful thing to
read aloud to your mother on her death bed.

The night after the bells tolled for her in the hospital,
my Mother stayed awake all night fearing that she would die in her sleep before
seeing my brother Robert who was driving in from Las Vegas that night.
Inevitably, she found a blank piece of paper, folded it into quarters,
unconsciously mimicking the folios of her beloved Shakespeare (or maybe not
unconsciously--I, too, tend to underestimate her), and wrote down her thoughts.
I know that she would not mind my sharing a bit of what she wrote.

"I stayed awake all night being grateful for all the
wonderful, precious people in my life. How incredibly blessed I've been with a
brave, loving mother always caring for me, with children who brought so much
joy and pride and adventures. How diminished my life would have been without
them! I loved the happy days, growing up with my father and mother, my sister
and brother, and later in life. The arrival of my dear little grandsons brought
new and unexpected joy. And who can express how much our friends and lovers are
worth for all they give to enrich our lives?

I stayed awake last night to read the poems I love, many
that hold hidden jewels that illuminate life's mysteries in short flashes of
insight into our own complex inner being, and the poems that are sheer delight
or are beauty made manifest.

My heart is filled with gratitude today, so thankful for
one more day."

Mother went into hospice care at home on a Tuesday and had
four more days to be thankful for. I am thankful for every day I spent in her
company. Her last days fueled my Desire to be more grateful, more thankful,
more accepting. My desire to live, not merely exist.

Monday, May 7, 2012

You’ve decided that
you want to learn about wine, and that one of the best ways to learn about it
is to travel to wine country and taste. This couldn’t be further from reality. Tasting rooms are the
major source of misinformation in the wine business, aside from wine blogs, winery
press releases and Food and Wine.
But your heart is set on it, you’ve booked the cheapest hotel in the county
(the bed vibrates, but not as much as the mini-fridge), and you’ve mapped out
your tastings. But you’re not really sure how to behave in tasting rooms, what
the proper etiquette is, how to appear professional and wine-savvy. Well, have
no fear, in this edition of Basics of Wine Appreciation, we’ll learn all about
tasting room etiquette.

What do I wear to a
tasting room?

One of the most important things to wear to a tasting room
is cologne. Tasting rooms are usually pretty crowded, and the aroma of dozens
of inebriated humans on a hot day is surprisingly reminiscent of Nick Nolte’s
G-spot. Wearing a lovely splash of cologne, preferably something your
grandmother adored, like Elizabeth Taylor’s “I’m Dead,” is particularly
welcome. It’s natural to wonder how your cologne might interfere with the
aromas of the wines being served, but that’s not your problem. Besides, there’s
nothing worse than standing next to a woman wearing perfume in a tasting room
when you’re without; in which case it is perfectly acceptable to fight back
with your Constitutional Right to life, liberty and the pursuit of flatulence.
Soil is not just important to wine. Ah, yes, there’s methane to your madness.

When it comes to clothing, yes, it is important to wear it. Have you seen how ugly the people are in tasting rooms?

What’s the proper way
to taste each wine?

Your generous hospitality representative will pour you a
small taste of each wine. It is not appropriate to insist, “I’ll say when”
while they’re pouring. Or, “That’s barely a mouthful--like my wife.” You may
then swirl the wine in the glass, though it’s ineffably stupid to do so. The
damn wine’s been open all day, you think swirling it’s going to do anything?
It’s like Mike Wallace, it’s not going to breathe any more! And, for God’s
sake, don’t say something stupid about the “legs.” This is an instant tip-off
you’re an idiot. Legs are about as important to wine as they are to snakes and
land mines. And no one cares if you think it’s a pretty color either. What are
you, six? “Ooh, that’s so pretty.” If wineries cared about the color do you
think they’d put the stuff in green bottles?

Once you’ve managed not to look stupid just getting that
first taste, now it’s time to actually put it in your mouth. Ladies, don’t
forget to apply plenty of lipstick first. This will not enhance your tasting
experience, but it does royally piss off the tasting room help who have to wash
the glassware. And showing your contempt for them subconsciously reminds them
of the sommeliers, wine writers and wine shop owners they are called upon to
serve, and makes them hold you in higher regard. (Insider’s tip: If you don’t have any lipstick with you, try rubbing
some of the complimentary cheese around the rim of the glass!) Hold the
wine up to your nose, put your nose as far into the glass as it will allow, and
inhale deeply. Think about what you’re smelling in this pristine tasting room
environment. Lipstick? The trembling mini-Chihuahua in the woman’s purse next
to you (it’s not a dog, it’s a personal vibrator!)? The guy next to you
expressing his Constitutional rights in response to your splash of Lindsey
Lohan’s “Jailhouse Rape" perfume? Once you’ve pegged the aromas, take a taste of the
wine itself. There, you’ve done it, you’ve managed to taste a wine in a
prestigious appellation’s tasting room and not make a jackass of yourself.
You’re welcome.

What is the etiquette
for expectorating?

It’s not required that you spit, but if you do, make sure
it’s wine. Spitting is otherwise frowned upon, though you may pick your nose.
It pairs nicely with orange wines. If you decide to spit, step away from the
spit bucket (often called a dump bucket, but, frankly, that’s REALLY frowned
upon) about two feet and release a long, graceful arc of the wine into the
receptacle. It’s best to practice this technique at home before your big trip.
Make sure and practice in all kinds of weather conditions, particularly with a
strong breeze in your face. It is acceptable to spit the wine directly into the
spit bucket, but, really, you came here to have fun, right? Let it fly.

Remember, there are no taste buds in your throat. Those are
cancerous nodules you feel. Professionals taste the wine, then spit it out.
Mostly because they show up drunk and don’t want to fall down or pass out, but,
still, it’s a good idea. And, it gives you the appearance of being an expert,
though wearing that bib probably cancels that out.

What will I learn
from the tasting room staff?

Tasting room staff are impeccably trained to answer all of
your wine questions. However, so is a Magic Eight Ball, which is considerably
more accurate. You will certainly learn, however, information that will teach
you a great deal about that magical product that tasting rooms are charmingly
dedicated to. I’m speaking, of course, about their wine club. They always have
cutesy names, sort of like how we refer to our genitals, and, similarly, some
come every month, others once a year. The Duckhorn Monthly Bills. Rombauer
Selections—the R.S. Club. Fess Parker’s That’s a Giant Crockett Club. That’s
what you’ll learn about.

But, honestly, learning about wine from hospitality
employees is like learning about horses from the guy who cleans the stalls. Shoveling
manure is a gift, and both vocations are accomplished at it.

Is it OK to show up
drunk?

Tasting room employees are carefully trained to refuse
service to anyone visibly intoxicated. Don’t let that discourage you. You planned
on visiting six wineries a day, you don’t like to spit because, “That’s a
waste!,” and if you can just eat a dozen more tasting room crackers you’ll be
fine to drive the country road and stop at more than half the stop signs and
barely clip the bicyclists (if done gracefully, you may be awarded both ears
and the jersey). You’re fine. Don’t worry about it. Just mention how interested
you are in the WINE CLUB! Always, always, mention the wine club. This soothes
the fears of tasting room employees, makes them see you as visibly
intoxicating, a crucial difference.

You’re in wine country, dammit, the whole economy relies on
insobriety. You’re simply being a patriot. Is it OK to show up drunk? What kind
of question is that? It’s not only OK, it’s your solemn responsibility. Give me
liver failure, or give me death!

Thursday, May 3, 2012

DR. VINO: Check out
this week’s impossible food-wine pairing—crow! Dr. Vino eats a lot of that, and
wonders what wine would best accompany it. First guy to say Ravenswood becomes
the next impossible food-wine pairing—human prairie oysters. Pretty sure Leslie
Sbrocco knows what pairs with those pairs. In another post, Dr. Vino
investigates wine labels. “They just don’t come off in hot water any more. Can
the glue be good for the environment? Are our children being poisoned by big
corporate wineries?

Can I drum up another fake controversy?” If you can’t, who
can?

WINE ENTHUSIAST: Paul
Gregutt writes about the unheralded star of Washington wines—Paul Gregutt. Steve Heimoff
has an interesting feature on the “Hairiest Winemakers in California” and bemoans the fact that not
enough of them are men. Virginie Boone talks to readers about the importance of
vineyards in “Oooh, They’re So Pretty.” And Roger Voss wanders around the Loire Valley
because he’s too proud to ask for directions.

CONNOISSEURS’ GUIDE: Editor Charles Olken predicts what’s
ahead in wine in the coming year. “More wineries will send me samples,
sommeliers will be headed for the unemployment line, and Jon Bonné will marry a
chimpanzee.” Co-editor Stephen Eliot writes a haunting piece that wonders why
Charlie is planning to move the apostrophe back a space.

WALL STREET JOURNAL:
Jay McInerney is invited to a hundred-year vertical of Chateau d’Yquem
by Justin Bieber and wonders which one is sweeter in the mouth. And don’t miss
Lettie Teague’s assessment of the 2009 vintage in Bordeaux, “Great vintage, but I prefer
Cabernet.”

PALATE PRESS: Palate
Press is the “My Weekly Reader” for wine bloggers. Check out the fascinating
feature on Malbec in “How Many Words Can You Make from ‘Malbec?’”
Clam…Came…Blame…Beam…LAME… In “Wine Conversations,” there’s an interview with
the Robert Mondavi winery dog, Poopus One, that will leave you howling. And,
finally, the ultimate guide to being a successful wine blog, “Write Really
Fast.”

eROBERT PARKER: The
investigative report is in, and Dr. of Love Jay Miller is exonerated. Yes, some
money changed hands, Robert Parker writes, but Miller was inflating scores long
before that; and Spanish wineries weren’t promised access to Miller, they were
only promised access to Miller LITES! Simple mix-up it only takes 3000 pages to
explain. And Antonio Galloni talks about dumping on Parker’s California cult wines and creating his own.
“I don’t hand out 100 point scores like they’re condoms in Africa.
When I hand out 100 point scores they mean something. Power. I’m the new Pope, Baby!
I speak for God.”

WINE SPECTATOR: “Wines
are tasted completely blind when reviewed by Wine Spectator critics,” says
publisher Marvin Shanken in a hard-hitting editorial, “it’s those damned ad
sales people that screw with the scores.” The new Grand Awards for restaurant
wine lists are announced—the crappy one at Greystone is nowhere to be seen. Tim
Fish on his love affair with winery logo polo shirts.

NEW YORK TIMES: The
New York Times tasting panel rates Chinese wines in honor of Jeremy Lin. The
result? Read “Knicks and Nix—both Overrated.” Eric Asimov visits rich people
that own wineries. “They just smell better.”

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About Me

After 19 years as a Sommelier in Los Angeles, twice named Sommelier of the Year by the Southern California Restaurant Writers' Association, I moved to Sonoma County to explore the other aspects of the wine business. I've spent, OK wasted, 35 years learning about and teaching about and swallowing wine. I am also a judge at the Sonoma Harvest Fair, San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition and the San Francisco International Wine Competition--so I can spit like a rabid llama. I know more about wine than David Sedaris and I'm funnier than James Laube. Stay tuned for an informed but jaded view of everything wine and everything else.

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